


Conversation Veered Left

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the <i>gameison_sh</i> prompt, where we needed to write a 750 words or less ficlet to the prompt <b>AU.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversation Veered Left

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers to 1X01 _"The Study in Pink"_

_"I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."_

_"And what's that?"_

_"He'll probably say his arch enemy. He does love to be dramatic."_

_"Well thank God you're above all that."_

The conversation volleyed back and forth like a verbal version of Wimbledon; polite, congenial yet edged with a vicious backhand. John leaned on his cane, grimacing as his leg ached— _psychosomatic, my foot_ —but he refused to sit down. Not in a chair in the middle of a warehouse, not after sitting in a car, staring at the partition that rose up between him and the driver, waiting to meet a man who couldn't be arsed to properly introduce himself. 

John refused the offer of money. The back of his neck prickled when the man in the expensive suit slipped his hands into his trouser pockets—damn, his gun was still in his hotel—and merely smiled benevolently at him. The slit his mouth made across his pale face broadened, teetering on the edge of a grin when John asked curtly if they were done, snatching back the hand the man had grabbed. John glowered at his smug visage when he only demurred, "You tell me." He tipped his head at John, murmured how he looked forward to seeing Doctor Watson again before vanishing among the warehouse's shadows. John stood there, staring after him until the driver wordlessly opened the car door behind him.

When John was left in front of his hotel, his hand vibrated as he fumbled for his key.

 

John’s left hand twitched after the ringing in his ears finally faded and the urgency of _don'tletmebetoolate_ bled away from his legs, leaving him feeling vaguely empty and numb. John jammed his hand into his jacket as he watched Sherlock roll up the orange blanket and bin it into the seat of a patrol car. They walked away giggling like school children, and John found himself still chuckling as Sherlock shared his theory on door handles and Chinese food.

And there he was.

At the edge of the plaza, outside the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances, the man stood by his car, hands in his pockets once more, shoulders relaxed as if he hadn't minded waiting. He canted his head when he sighted John, smiling at him like they shared a joke.

John tensed, not realizing he'd stepped in front of Sherlock until Sherlock nearly tripped on his heels.

"Sherlock," John said under his breath as his eyes flicked over to his new flatmate then back at the well-suited man by the car. "That's him, that's the man I was talking to you about."

As if on cue, the man raised his fingers up shoulder height to give an abbreviated wave to them before he slipped into his car. The dark vehicle drove away, quiet as a shadow, quick as a thought, veering around the parked SOCO vans. 

"Who was that?" John asked, so distracted he did not notice until the last moment yet another dark car rolling to a stop in front of them. He stiffened and drew closer to Sherlock, trying to shield him. Bloody hell. Not another warehouse. He was starving.

Sherlock stared in the direction the first shadowy black sedan had taken, ignoring their newcomer. "I have no idea," he murmured, his mouth quirked up at the corners in anticipation, eyes lit with a gleam that made John grimace. He had a feeling he'd be seeing that expression frequently. Finally, Sherlock turned to focus on the new car, as a tall man stepped out of it, a large umbrella at hand. Sherlock's little smile flattened and he narrowed his eyes.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

 

Difficult as their relationship appeared to be, it was clear to John that Mycroft was neither a criminal mastermind nor an immediate physical threat to Sherlock (he couldn’t guarantee the reverse). As the two Holmes— _good God there are two of them_ —teetered on the brink of conversational nuclear war, John’s mind was drawn back to the first car, and its elusive passenger. He pulled out his hand and studied it thoughtfully.

It was rock steady.

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my beta Penfold-x for keeping me sane, in Brit and within my word limit!


End file.
